God Rest Ye Sleuthy, Gentlemen: An Advent Calendar Drabble Collection
by tiltedsyllogism
Summary: a Sherlock drabble or 221b for every day of Advent. With one exception, these are 25 independent and self-contained ficlets - mostly on a Christmas theme, but not all. So ignore the character and genre tags: though each individual chapter/story is small, the fic as a whole has a range of genres, a cast of thousands, &c. Written in 2014.
1. Sherlock and an egg

John still occasionally found bits of Sherlock's missing two years wedged awkwardly in the present. Today, it was eggs soaking in mugs of tea all over the table.

"Chinese tea eggs," Sherlock said, creamy marbled surface emerging beneath his fingers. "Surely even you can put it together."

John shrugged. "You never order them, how was I to know?"

"The version you get in London restaurants is rubbish. I had no idea they were worthwhile before the street vendors in Tianjin."

"Oh," said John. Oh. It rankled a bit, being called stupid on account of something he could never have observed.

Sherlock's movements went slow as he laid down the last shard of tea-darkened shell. He carefully pulled the egg apart and held one half out to John.

"This is the fermented pu-erh," he said softly. "I have high hopes."

John unclenched his hand and held it out. The egg felt clammy to his fingers, so he didn't let himself think before popping it into his mouth.

"That's quite nice," he said, surprised. "Can't really taste the tea, though."

Sherlock frowned at the panoply of mugs. "Lapsang souchong!" he said suddenly, reaching for a mug. "I know, it's appalling to drink, but try it. We'll find you your perfect egg." He glanced up at John. "If you're game?"

John smiled. "You bet."


	2. Mycroft wrapping gifts

Anthea would have taken care of it, of course – or had it taken care of, more likely – but he preferred to do it himself. He spends hours he doesn't have steeping in crisp, gold-stamped paper: smoothing surfaces, tucking up uneven edges, preserving the clean square edges of the boxes beneath. The manual precision required is not a natural talent of his, but the end result is impeccable, an infinitesimal second skin to encase the tasteful, unambitious items he's selected from Anthea's list of suggestions. Everyone - even Sherlock - will assume he paid to have them wrapped. The invisibility is his gift.


	3. Greg Lestrade and a kitten

Lestrade was accustomed to crying children; he played Caring Father when it seemed expedient, and handed off the angry ones to Donovan. But the crying from the vic's back bedroom worried him; he wasn't sure what he would do about a baby.

The door squeaked as he pushed it open, and the crying stopped. He stepped cautiously into the room.

A brush at his ankle sent him whirling. The first thing he saw was Donovan behind him, laughing; the next was the orange kitten by his feet.

"Need some backup, sir?" Donovan asked.

Lestrade scooped up the kitten. "Sorted, thanks."


	4. Dad Holmes

They hadn't money for a proper tree, that first year; one university lecturer's salary didn't go very far in London. But Violet had a box of her grandmother's ornaments, and they made do with a big fallen pine branch Arthur had spirited out of the park one icy evening. It had been a splendid prank, and the recollection made him glow as he hung spun-glass icicles and tiny wooden horses from still-fragrant needles of the pilfered branch, now propped in a corner of their tiny flat. Violet would be home soon. It was their first year, and everything was perfect.


	5. something JanineMolly

Most of the other women at the shower had been at the wedding, but Mary was the only one she knew properly. Mary hadn't time to look after her, though, so Molly clutched her her BABY BINGO! card and tried to laugh when the other ladies did.

One of the women slid into the empty chair next to Molly. "Christ, I hate these these things," she murmured.

Molly smiled, startled out of her discomfiture. "Me too."

"I saw your face and knew you'd be good for it. Molly, right?"

Molly nodded, racking her brain. Sherlock's date. Well, not date. His – maid of honor, that's what she was. Well, not _his_. But—

The woman laughed, loud and hearty. "Stop thinking so hard, you'll hurt yourself. Janine. It's okay if you don't remember." She tipped her head and smiled shrewdly. "I reckon you were just watching Sherlock, weren't you? Know I was."

Molly flushed, and Janine laughed again: full-throated, intrusively loud. It jarred Molly's senses, how carelessly this woman took up space. She liked it.

"Maybe," she said, feeling bold, "but he's not here now."

Janine sighed. "Lucky man. I think we deserve a reward, after this, you and I."

Molly smirked. "A drink?"

Janine's smile took on a coy lilt. "I was thinking of other things, but sure, let's start with booze."


	6. attending a holiday concert

"This will be hideous," Sherlock grumbled.

"We promised," said John.

Sherlock sneered. " _You_ promised."

John sighed. "Could you possibly not be an arse about this?"

"Either it will be an evening of insipid carols or they'll be butchering Vivaldi, I hardly know which is worse."

John kicked him.

The auditorium lights dimmed, and the members of the choir filed out onto the risers. John scanned the singers until he spotted Mrs. Hudson in the second row.

Sherlock had seen her, too; his fingers closed tightly around John's arm. "There she is," he whispered urgently.

John touched Sherlock's hand. "I know."


	7. bounce!

Harry had to work, at the last minute.

"They fly her lots of places, on short notice," John said, again.

Sherlock had always been suspicious: neither the story itself nor John's responses were reliable indices, because John would always choose credulity over disappointment where Harry was concerned. But Sherlock would have to re-evaluate, now. Sherlock had limited data to work with on Harry, but none of it suggested that she would choose to give up one of her weekends with her son.

Peter arrived right before noon, coming up the stairs hand-in-hand with John, and his eyes grew wide as he took in Sherlock's latest experiment. "Is that a real brain?" he asked. "Can I touch it?"

John had begged him to be nice, so Sherlock smiled. "Sure, let's –"

"No, we're going out, actually," John said hurriedly. "Where, um, is there anywhere, Peter…"

Peter had been trying to pull away from John's hand, but now he turned back to his uncle, eyes shining. "Trampoline park!" he crowed. "Mum won't take me, and Mama's too busy."

"Yeah, okay," John replied. He already sounded exhausted.

"I'll come along," said Sherlock. "Another adult will be helpful."

"Another adult," John repeated. Sherlock couldn't decide if John looked defeated or relieved.

"Come on," Sherlock said, taking Peter's hand. "Let's go see how high you can bounce."


	8. Trees of London

She misses the Eaton Square house, of course, and Kate, who had very gifted fingers. But overall, now that she lives in Paris, Irene has found that there is very little about London to miss.

The trees, though.

There are no plane trees in France; she had to leave London to learn that those quiet stalwarts of her composure are a local cultivar, unknown on the continent. The soft, bright greens of the lindens and honey locusts bring her cheer without deep comfort.

There are people to see, whenever she returns. But first, she visits the friends who stand still.


	9. Mycroft brings someone home forChristmas

"She's only here to review reports," Mycroft said. "There's really no need…."

"Now, _Myc_ ," Mummy replied severely, coming to stand behind her son. "If you think we're going to neglect your guest, you are _quite_ mistaken." She gave Mycroft's shoulder a fierce squeeze. "Would you like some mulled cider, dear?"

His assistant smiled. "Yes, thanks."

"Good." Mummy moved toward the stove. "Remind me of your name, dear?"

"Sorina."

Mycroft looked up sharply, and then sighed. As usual, his mother was ignorant of her rare fortune. Mycroft could not envy her mind, but her technique, he had to acknowledge, was impressive.


	10. Sherlock and his violin

He fell in love with the violin on a December morning on Marlborough, where a street musician was serenading the harried shoppers with O Holy Night. The tone was sweet and pure and strange, and it made Sherlock feel alone with the snow.

John, he has learned, has a weakness for choral music, which Sherlock indulges because he finds it difficult to deny John anything. But in the evenings, after John has gone to bed, Sherlock untucks his violin from its case, and rosins the bow, and coaxes from it melodies that sing of the only peace he believes in.


	11. John's stocking

John's stocking is plain green velvet; cheap, mass-market. Unrecognizable, until you consider that he would never spend time or money to find himself a better one. Of course he wouldn't. John.

Filling it up is also straightforward, if you know him. John loves curry cashews, and posh cream-filled chocolates; all manner of expensive little treats he would never buy for himself.

The difficult thing is knowing whether to hang it at all, when he may never see it, on the mantelpiece of a home he no longer claims.

Mary sighs, and once again lays the stocking back in its box.


	12. Roman AU: Saturnalia

Ioannes Vatii smoothed his tunic and squared his jaw. He had faced the Sassanid army as first spear in his legion, but somehow that had been less alarming than the thought of this particular banquet hall. Ioannes had always passed Saturnalia either at his father's table or in the house of the legion legate. But a triclinium full of Rome's preeminent patricians, he thought to himself, might be able to accomplish what the Sassanids had not.

Ioannes slipped through the entryway and was met immediately by a frowning Praetorian guard. "What brings you here, medicus?"

"I'm a, uh, guest of Praetor Marcus Horatius Pulvillus, "he said. "Friend of his brother, Crispin Horatius Pulvillus Sciens."

The guard nodded and stepped back. "Enter."

Ioannes strode into the room and scanned the crowd for familiar dark curls. He spotted Crispin by the banquet-table, conversing pleasantly with an elderly Praetor. He drew close and waited for the Praetor to move on before joining his friend.

"Crispin," he whispered. "Are you _eating_?"

Crispin nodded, swallowing. "Needs must. Sets them on edge when I don't." He sneered. "They remember I am here investigating, and not for my own pleasure."

Ioannes frowned. "So much rich food all at once cannot be good for you."

"No," Crispin conceded. "In fact…." he gestured toward the vomitorium. "I'll be right back."


	13. black ice

It's the first really bitter night of winter, the cruel press of air like dry metal against John's bare skin. He runs, lungs wresting each breath by force from the stony blackness, feet aching with every strike against the pavement. Sherlock is still ahead of him, so he runs.

Then his body pitches forward, and his mind concludes, distantly: ice.

He lands hard. The raw wet scrape is a new kind of cold; he lies still.

"John!"

Leather gloves against his cheeks, smooth and cold, tracing the wound. Suddenly, Sherlock's mouth is hot against his; the world becomes visible again.


	14. John and shaving

"I don't actually care, you know," John said, as he knelt.

Mary smirked. "Yes you do. You're just trying to make me feel better, you considerate bastard."

John held up his hands. " _No_ , I... In sickness and in health, Mary. Body hair's hardly a blip on the monitor."

Mary leaned down and caressed his cheek. "It drives you wild when my legs are smooth," she murmured. "I couldn't bear to deny you." She sat up straight and passed him the razor. "So get cracking, you."

"Pregnancy is one surprise after another," John groused. He kissed her kneecap. "Now, hold still."


	15. Mycroft and the yule log

The televisions each have their own cabinet, with doors that meld seamlessly into the walls. Mycroft rarely requires more than five at once, but there have been three occasions when he and his staff have needed all twelve.

He has access to every network in the world, here. The point is the news reporting, but he has sometimes seen snippets of MTV India, on those mornings when Anthea arrives before he does. He himself has occasionally switched on La Châine parlementaire for background noise.

He hasn't burned a real yule log in years. Christmas at the office has its consolations.


	16. John and Lestrade when Sherlock's away

The Camdentown strangler had surfaced again – in Chesterfield, of all places – so Sherlock had gone north for a few days.

John had asked, finally, so then he had to listen as Greg gave him the details of the original case as they made their way back to Baker Street.

"The unsolved ones always bother him," Greg said, setting down the wine bottles.

John went straight to the fridge and began to unload groceries. "Didn't know there were any," he replied. "Beer?"

"Love one, thanks." Greg dropped into a kitchen chair.

But John continued to put away the groceries, movements rigid and mouth tight.

"So it's cases, then," he said at last, when there was nothing else for his hands to do. "Plural."

Greg leaned back. "It's not you, John. He never liked talking about them with anyone."

John kept staring at the refrigerator. "Anyone," he repeated.

"Look, it's not…" Greg sighed. "He just… he wants to be perfect for you."

John looked over at last. "Yeah, makes sense," John said, though his face said it didn't. "Anyhow, thanks for…" he waved a hand. "Usually Sherlock helps." He pulled a face. "With this, anyhow."

Greg nodded. "It wouldn't feel like Christmas without drinks at yours." He stood. "We'll all be drinking here on Friday, so how about the pub tonight? I'm buying."


	17. persimmon

To Nana, it wasn't a Christmas cake; it was just a family recipe, and she made it in wintertime because that's when the persimmons came ripe. But Mary's memory has plaited it together with her mother's holiday table-linens and the scent of pine needles: red, gold, green.

She makes it for parties, now, because it's difficult to eat more than a few bites: the sticky sweetness she loved as a child is overpowering now. But the fragrance brings her back; that fragile balance of taste and anticipation reminds her of her Nana's face, touched by a sadness she now understands.


	18. Johnlock, Magical Realism

_Bury your clock in the garden_ , the note said. John didn't recognize the handwriting; it wasn't their realtor, and the cottage had stood empty since the last owner passed away eight months ago.

A bit cryptic, really. But John liked ceremonies – little personal ones, that is, he didn't much go in for church ritual – and this seemed like a nice way to mark the beginning of this chapter of their lives.

He chose the digital clock radio from the bedroom, and that evening he chiseled out a shallow hole by the garden wall, with an old shovel from the shed and fingers grown stiff from springtime cold. His knuckles rang with remembered chill as he stripped down and burrowed into bed next to Sherlock.

"That may be the most absurd thing you've ever done," Sherlock murmured sleepily. "How will we know what time it is?"

"You don't care," John pointed out. "And starting tomorrow, neither do I."

Retirement suited John, and Sherlock, too; slowness filtered into their daily rhythms like warm wine, itself so slow that John barely noticed what hadn't changed.

"Sherlock," he said one evening. "Are we still getting older?"

Sherlock was quiet a long time. "I don't think so."

 _Absurd_ , John thought. _Precious._ Moving to Sussex had felt like winding down, but maybe it was just another beginning.


	19. Mycroft and Greg, snow and lights

The black sedan was waiting for him. It was late, and Greg really didn't feel like cleaning up after Sherlock. But he'd lost that fight months ago, so he climbed in.

"Hello then," Greg said. "What's the occasion?"

Mycroft stiffened, if that was even possible. "No occasion," he said carefully.

Greg shrugged. "Used to taking orders secondhand, is all," he said. "Where is, um…"

"Night off." Mycroft looked pointedly at Greg. "For all of us."

The car glided forward into snow-hushed streets. Greg's confusion faded as he stared out the window, spellbound.

"This," Mycroft said softly. "This is the reason."


	20. Johnlock: what changed, what didn't

The fingernails in the microwave aren't going anywhere, and he knows it. And Sherlock's public persona is a calculated mask that had been years in the making; no chance he would throw that over on account of an outbreak of sentiment.

If anything, John had thought Sherlock would perfect that uncaring veneer, give him fewer of those piercing stares that had had Scotland Yard whispering long before the day John drank himself into blubbering self-awareness. But Sherlock still gazes at him, unabashed, as if unaware that his feelings are visible to the world. As if his longings are still unsatisfied.


	21. coat pockets

She feels at loose ends without her little book, so as soon as coat season arrives, into the pocket it goes.

Sherlock had given her the first book, some years ago, once he noticed how much keeping lists helped her think. Now all the lists are in one place: The shopping, of course. Important phone numbers. Television shows she wants to try. Things the boys might need; they have so much trouble minding themselves. In her pocket, always.

It comforts her to know that, if she should drop dead at Tesco one day, she won't be any trouble for anybody.


	22. gold, incense andor myrrh

They were absurdly expensive, for candles, but Janine bought them anyway; their fragrance wove its way into the alcoves of her memory and unwound all her self-control from within. She was out for a day's shopping, that was all, she was at Penhaligon's, and she was unprepared.

Frankincense and myrrh were names like incantation, but it was the scent of them that sang to her blood and bones.

She keeps them in a back closet, where they won't tempt her. But every Christmas Eve, she lights them again, leans in to let the warmth stroke her cheeks, and breathes deeply.


	23. sticky Christmas tree sap

Sarah, Sherlock now understood, had been biding her time. Whether or not she had been specifically thinking ahead to Christmas - it was possible, she was no fool - her willingness to retain John at the surgery, which had initially registered as convenient if inexplicable forbearance, Sherlock now understood to be in service of a darker purpose.

John arrived home two hours later than usual, irritable and sticky with pine sap.

"Waiting room Christmas tree," John said, by way of extraneous explanation. "I do owe her," he added pointedly.

Sherlock ignored this. "Tea?" he asked.

"Need a wash first, thanks," John muttered.


	24. missing Xmas dinner because of The Work

Sherlock missed his train home. The local police had bungled the case; he would likely be in Chesterfield through Christmas.

John imagined Sherlock was livid. But he couldn't know for sure, because Sherlock was halfway across England, and John was setting up for their Christmas party, alone.

Mrs. Hudson brought up the mince pies half an hour early. "I'll eat them all myself, if I'm not careful," she said.

John remembered himself. "Please, sit down."

She smiled and sat.

"Tea?" he asked. "Sorry, I'm not…"

"That's all right." She took his hand and patted it. "Let's wait for everyone together."


	25. some different Christmas day traditions

They had been working so long that John had lost track of the days. Now that Simon Pritchard was finally in custody, John wanted nothing so much as an enormous fry-up, followed by a long nap.

John knew of two decent diners within walking distance. Sherlock trailed after, lost in thought and absently pliant.

One was bad luck, but two was a pattern; at the second dark door, John turned to Sherlock, strident in his frustration. "Can you explain this?"

Sherlock blinked himself back into the present and then chuckled. "It's Christmas."

John swore, and then wondered whether that was extra bad luck somehow. He didn't think he needed any more.

But anger took too much energy. He sighed and wiped his face with his hand. "What are we going to eat, then? We've absolutely nothing in."

"There's a good Chinese next block over." Sherlock turned and began walking. "Come on, my treat."

John trotted after him and fell into step. "Will they be open?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "People need a place to eat before going to the cinema."

John, somewhat revived by their brisk pace, took a risk. "Do you want to see a film as well, then?"

Sherlock gave a rare grin. "Why not? It is a holiday."

John couldn't help grinning back. The day was getting better.


End file.
